Roar
by J Lush
Summary: A Cyrodiil born Nord struggles to face the reality of his fate, and the fate of Nirn, if he chooses to ignore his duty as Dovahkiin. The minion of a Daedric Prince and a mysterious Nord warrior are among those who have stepped up to lead him on the correct path. Hatred flares, love blossoms, and blood flows as Skyrim politics interfere with prophesy.
1. Friendly Fire

Disclaimer: Skyrim not mine.

Summary: A Cyrodiil born Nord struggles to face the reality of his fate, and the fate of Nirn, if he chooses to ignore his duty as Dovahkiin. The minion of a Daedric Prince and a mysterious Nord warrior are among those who have stepped up to lead him on the correct path. Hatred flairs, love blossoms, and blood flows as Skyrim politics interfere with prophesy.

Roar

Chapter 1 – Friendly Fire

The sudden clash of metal sent morning black birds soaring noisily from the trees. The eruption of nature muffled the brief struggle, but nothing would hide the blood on the snow. The wind stirred up a vortex of powdered white along the road, and for a moment Roar could barely see the retreating Stormcloak captive.

Through the hammering of his heart, the young Nord could hear the whistling of the wind. Just barely could Roar feel the sting of the cold, his blood still like liquid fire warmed him to the core. He had a lingering tingle of arousal which accompanied the rush of adrenaline, causing him to shiver in aching delight.

Roar took his time surveying the damage he had caused. He always savored moments like these, and made a point to reflect on the time his head rested upon the bloodied chopping block. Roar Varian was born in Cyrodiil. His family lived in the wilderness near Bruma, hunting the land and occasionally traveling south for supplies. Roar knew it was dangerous, they all did, but the Empire never was a large problem for them. He knew the Legionnaires stationed in Skyrim were hardened from war, but Roar did not foresee crossing the border would end in a beheading. He did not need much convincing to take sides with the rebels.

The thought of what had happened next made Roar stomach sick. His feeling of triumph faded. The dragon, Alduin, had saved his life but ultimately changed it. Roar could feel a rumble in his belly as he thought the words, and taste the power on his tongue. One utterance and he could send someone off a cliff, or burn them alive. He was the Dovahkiin, a mortal born with the blood of dragons, and it was his inherent duty to defeat Alduin to prevent the End Times…

It couldn't happen. Roar wasn't cut out to be a hero. He scarcely believed that he, a Cyrodiil born Nord with a talent for _procuring_, could or should be gifted with such power. He witnessed his own power, shouted the words many times and triumphed over his enemies, and he still wakes in the morning believing it all to be some bad dream. All Roar wanted to do was fight a war and get rich in the process, not save the world by taking on the gods.

After taking the pilgrimage to High Hrothgar Roar avoided his duties as Dovahkiin. He was expected to kill the son of Akatosh, to shout him from the sky and crack open his skull. The Greybeards had named Roar 'Ysmir, Dragon of the North', a name once carried by Talos himself. It should have felt like an honor, but all Roar could feel was a great and terrible weight settle in his stomach. He didn't feel any more powerful than what he did when detained at the Skyrim border, despite the words of power rumbling restlessly in the back of his throat.

The distant calls of wolves pulled Roar out of his thoughts. The young Nord looked over his shoulder into the squalling snow. He could see the wolves stalking through the trees behind him, none of them brave enough to venture forth while he still stood amongst their prize. The wolves of the Reach weren't as aggressive as he was used to, but their taste for human meat was unquestionable. It was time to move on.

The wind and snow seemed to die out as the sun went down over the distant hills. After more than five hours of traveling it became painfully obvious that Whiterun was still far out of reach. With no sign of shelter in the immediate area Roar was forced to continue onward as the sun's light took one final lick across the Reach before burying it in shadow.

Fortune was on his side however. Just as he was deciding to bunk down behind a cold looking boulder the flicker of a campfire caught his attention. There was only one light, and no shadows passing in front of it to show a great amount of activity. If he was lucky, the camp belonged to a passing Khajiit caravan. He knew the Khajiit traders well enough to comfortably ask for a spot beside their fire. It would also give him a chance to unload some unnecessary gear.

If he was unlucky, a band of Forsworn scouts outside their domain was about to have their camp invaded.

Roar left the main road. The light of the campfire leaked through a random gathering of trees. The misplaced giants were thin and sparsely covered with needles. They seemed to gather around the fire, branches looked to heave and shift under the moving shadows, fighting for the warmth and unaware of the Nord weaving around their trunks. Roar never stopped moving until the heat of the fire touched his face.

Just beyond two twisted trees he could see one person, a dunmer woman, who sat cross-legged in front of the campfire. She tuned the strings of a lute while her eyes, void of the characteristic crimson irises of her race, stared into the flames. The darkness in her eyes ate the light of the fire, resembling two inescapable voids. Roar suddenly felt ill.

"Like moth, you seek the fire." She plucked a string on the lute, the note panged emphasis on her words. "Or, is it like dragon? Hm?" Roar nearly stepped back when she turned her head toward him. She saw the stir in him and laughed. "The Dovahkiin is safe around this fire. Dovahkiin was right to follow it."

"How do you know who I am?" Roar asked, finding his voice. He did not move from his place within the trees. The Dunmer woman spoke oddly, her voice and tone not hardened like others he had met of her people. Her sentences were incomplete and almost childlike. Was she simple? He had come across similar people before, their minds taken by the excessive use of skooma.

"Everyone in Whiterun Hold knows who Dovahkiin is." A grin spread her dark face and she gestured to the fire. "Sit, Dovahkiin. Windelin has been looking for you for long time. She is very eager to speak with you."

"Windelin isn't a Dunmer name." Roar pointed out. He decided to take his chances. Not all simple-minded folk were violent, and she looked far too healthy physically to be addicted to Skooma or in need of quick gold. Now that he had gotten past her eyes, he could see that she was young, possibly younger than what he was. Her skin was dark with an undertone of violet, and free of scars or telltale tattoos. Her hair was braided away from her face, and fell into dozens of smaller black plaits over her shoulders, each one decorated with unidentifiable accessories. She didn't look sickly, and was without the scabbed lips and shallow cheeks of the addicts.

"Nords do not have family names, only names of clan. If they did, the choice wouldn't be 'Varian'." Came the curt reply. Roar caught the smirk she gave him as he sat opposite of her, deciding it better to keep his distance.

"You know my name too?" he shouldn't have been surprised. "Why have you been looking for me?" he watched Windelin cover the lute in deerskin, her attention only turning back to him when she had completed her task.

"Windelin understands Dovahkiin's plight. She's come to help you."

It took Roar a moment to digest her words. He couldn't help but laugh at the idea. "The Dovahkiin doesn't need help from Windelin." He said, mocking her openly. "The Dovahkiin already has a plan. And Windelin isn't part of it."

"Dovahkiin uses Windelin's fire…"

"And for that the Dovahkiin is very thankful." Roar assured her. "I'm not sure who you are elf, or why you got it into your head to seek me out. I've been called the Dovahkiin, but I'm not the one meant to stop the dragons. I'm only a man, I cannot kill gods."

Windelin sighed, but much to Roar's dismay she persisted. "You can speak words of power. You make the ground shake with your voice—that is the blood of your dragon kin. Only one man, one Dovahkiin, will be born to destroy the World-Eater." She leaned forward, nearly into the fire as she continued. "You. Dovahkiin. Windelin has seen you dismiss duty. You fight a war for a King you are yet to meet…for a Hold you have not visited. Whe—"

"I fight for the Stormcloaks because they have the right to this land, and the right to worship Talos." Roar defended himself coldly. "The Empire was to take my head, and almost did, because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. They didn't give me a trail…there was no justice!"

"When dragons open their eyes civil war will be reduced to insignificance. Stormcloaks…Imperials…all the banners will burn, and the Dovahkiin will be left to save a dying world instead of a thriving one." Windelin replied calmly. "Dovahkiin cannot hide…best for Dovahkiin to embrace."

Roar didn't want to hear any more and waved his hand to Windelin in a dismissing manner. "I don't want to discuss this with you. I've made my decision." In truth her words had put a crack in his reasoning, one that was filling with ice and expanding the more he thought about it. Roar was young and stubborn, admitting the doubts she cast upon him would be a sign of weakness and uncertainty. He didn't want to give her the satisfaction of knowing the stress she just caused him. "If you don't mind…I'm done talking. I've been walking all day."

He settled down on his side and turned his back to her and the fire. Roar was thankful she did not attempt any more conversation with him after that, nor did she try to drive him off from the camp. He silently wondered how many out there were like her, seeking him out to try and force him into a battle he couldn't win. Overshadowing those worries was the idea Windelin had planted. What if there was no one else who could stop this? If he was the only hope man and mer kind had… what was he to do?

Windelin watched Roar wrestle with himself in silence. She smiled broadly and let her dark gaze drop back to the flames. _Master will be pleased with Windelin,_ she thought proudly, barely able to keep her excitement contained_. Dovahkiin was easy to find_.

The night went on and Windelin continued to watch the fire, and the Nord beyond it. When the fire finally died out the forest around them shifted and groaned; the trees faded out of existence with the wisps of smoke.


	2. The Honor of Beasts and Men

Roar

Chapter 2 – The Honor of Beasts and Men

Blood flowed across the beast's tongue and down her throat. A savage growl rattled her body, and with mighty jaws she tore into the young mammoth's carcass with lusting ferocity. Entrails filled her maw, the juices released when she clenched, and with the toss of her head she swallowed. With front paws resembling hands she grabbed into the carcass and released a gut wrenching yowl into the sky.

Dark shadows moved a short distance away. The parental group of mammoths watched helplessly as the young one was feasted upon by the enraged lycan. The beast ignored them and delighted in the banquet. She couldn't remember the last time she hunted and tasted the tangy warmth of a fresh kill. The thick black fur on her shoulders stood on end as she shivered. She had forgotten the delights of this life.

Burying her nose back into the remains, the massive werewolf savored every mouthful with satisfied grunts. After a while the mammoths moved off. They were too far away from the giant camps to alert any possible attempt at retribution. The mammoths hadn't been the only ones watching the scene. The great lycan was very aware of the others that watched her. They shared the beast blood, the musky scent so intoxicating that it somewhat drowned out that of the mammoth in her jaws. Her instincts told her to chase them, perhaps capture and shred one of them for sport—but her better mind sang a different, louder tune. What would she gain from it? Other lycan weren't a danger to her; she just didn't like having them around. Younger changelings tended to be destructive, and too bold to stay alive.

These other beasts kept their distance—and their human forms—however, and eventually the feasting animal became very suspicious, even territorial. What were they waiting for, an invitation to her supper? She snorted at the very idea and with this in mind turned away from her feast to brood towards the intruders.

Blood stained her prints in the snow, and drops fell from her jaws. Steam rose to the air from between blooded fangs, and with an irritated growl she stalked forward on all fours. She watched as they stood and fanned out in front of her, positioning themselves much more efficiently than what she had expected. She growled again and slowed to a stop. They nearly surrounded her now, weapons drawn and held warily in front of their persons. These weren't mere brutish lycanthropes—they were trained warriors. It didn't take the beast long to realize who they were.

"_Companions…"_ the word rippled from her throat in wake of a growl. A mere mortal would never understand her, but they—her brethren and kin—could hear her clearly. There were five of them, four men and one woman of varying ages and skills. One of them stood out however, and slowly she turned her head to stare at the eldest of the five. She studied him with wide eyes that blazed yellow and red, and while adjusting her posture she inhaled his scent. _"The Harbinger," _she rumbled, pushing herself up onto two feet to tower over them. _"The Harbinger should know better than to attempt to sneak…and spy. It could get an unwise wolf killed."_

The other companions stirred uncomfortably around her, but their Harbinger stood tall and firm, unconcerned for her warning. Instead of the Harbinger one of the others spoke up, his voice sharp. "Who are you to speak to Kodlak in that manner?" the demand came from one of the youngest. A man with broad, strong shoulders and a mane of dark hair, with pale skin and black war paint slathered over his eyes. "You should show the respect he deserves, and keep your threats unspoken."

"Vilkas hold your tongue." The Harbinger ordered swiftly.

"_His words carry no weight—my conversation is with you, Harbinger."_ The beast carried her gaze back to the aging man in front of her. His whiskers were thick and grey and his eyes held the weight and wisdom of past battles. _"Why do you come out here and disturb me?"_ the heavy smell of the bloody kill behind her began to trickle back to her senses. The strength of her instincts was once again outweighing her logical mind. The pull was strong, she yearned to continue feeding. _"I am unfit for conversation. You are foolish."_

"You are Roskva the Wall, you have experience."

"_Not of recent years."_

An uncomfortable silence followed. Armor scraped and shifted as the Companion's exchanged glances with each other. Roskva took this time to forcefully mediate, crushing out the scents and instinct that came with them. History had conveniently left out her name from the stories, but the Harbinger's of the Companions continued to whisper it throughout the years. She reflected on the name, and the person who had carried it. She lost consciousness and when she became aware of her surroundings again, the wind was cold and she was hunched over in the snow, naked on her hands and knees.

Her mind unclouded and she shrugged away the bitter cold and pushed herself to her feet. Weapons were sheathed all around, starting with the Harbinger. Roskva inhaled deeply and looked down at her blood-coated torso and arms, a wry smile cracking her lips. "I want to know why you've sought me out Harbinger." She said. Roskva licked her arm, savoring the mammoth's taste. "My business is not yours."

"It is unlikely I would have tracked you down otherwise." Kodlak assured her. He walked towards her while removing his fur cloak. "I know the prophecy," he said lowly as he put the cloak over her shoulders. "You are looking for the Dragonborn. I am looking for the Dragonborn."

Roskva gave Kodlak an approving grin. "You know the whole prophecy, then?" He wouldn't have put so much effort into finding her if he didn't. The Dragonborn had a destiny written within the Companions as well, and Kodlak was smart to attempt to secure it. "Maybe we can help each other out after all."

Whiterun could be seen in the distance, Dragonsreach towered over the protective walls like the spectacle of greatness it was. Roar fell in favor of the Jarl, and he respected the man greatly, but he wished the old Nord could see through to the Stormcloak agenda. Jarl Balgruuf claimed to be neutral, but Roar knew his tendencies for loyalty were swayed in favor of the Empire. Even the bards sang of Imperial victory.

He remembered the statue of Talos that stood tall in the Wind District; and the Priest, Heimskr, who preached there every day. He was wise and brave, a man to be respected in Roar's eyes. Listening to the old man's sermon was the only thing he missed about Whiterun.

"The Dovahkiin is Thane of Whiterun Hold."

Roar flinched and turned around to the sound of the voice. She was still following him all this time? He watched as the Dunmer, Windelin, nearly skip down the road towards him, clearly thrilled that he had stopped to acknowledge her presence. He had awakened early enough to leave without her noticing, but had become aware of her distant presence within two hours. He hadn't expected her to catch up with him.

The disgruntled Nord shot the unbalanced Dunmer a cold look as she stopped in front of him. She was so much smaller than he was, and the fact seemed lost on her. Now with the light of day to help him he could finally see the vacant darkness of her eyes. Even his reflection got lost in the endless depths.

The words he had planned for her were forgotten, and Roar kept silent and still as he searched for his face in the two black pools. The longer he searched the more lost he felt. He could no longer feel the chill in the air or the weight of his armor, nor could he see the light of the sun peeking through the clouds. There was nothing but shadows, a darkness wrapped in a haunting madness that seemed to push and prod at his very soul. It was trying to seep in.

With a choked yell Roar found his hands to Windelin's shoulders and gave her a rough shove backwards. The elf gave a surprised yelp as she fell onto the frozen gravel, the lute and staff on her back scuffing and crunching with the impact. "What in Oblivion were you trying to do to me?!" he yelled at her, spit flying from his mouth. He trembled, the contents of his stomach sloshed and churned, threatening to burst to his throat. It was dark magic, and it had touched him.

Windelin moaned as she sat up. She ignored Roar's demand, her attention immediately going to the items on her back. The staff was fine, but the lute had taken the full brunt of the impact, its body partially shattered in splinters over the ground. She looked at the instrument in terror, releasing a choked whine before she turned her gaze back to Roar. Her crimson eyes burned with tears. "You broke Windelin's lute!" she shrieked. "It was a gift from Windelin's Master! And you broke it!"

Roar braced himself for the wrath of a mage, expecting fire to erupt from the Dunmer and engulf him. Instead he watched as tears made dark paths down her cheeks as she sobbed over the broken instrument. His anger melted into confusion, but before he could allow sympathy to take him Roar shook the rage back into his system. He could be cursed. The darkness had almost seemed to enter him at one point. "Curse the damned lute!" he barked at her. To emphasize his point, the Nord stepped forward and booted the lute out of her hands. Another fraction of it shattered into splinters.

Windelin's crying ceased instantly, but before she had a chance to fully respond to what he had done Roar grabbed her cloak and yanked her to her feet. "What did you just do to me, sorceress?" he demanded again shaking her.

"Windelin did nothing!" she cried, her body falling limp in Roar's grasp. He did not let her go. "W-Windelin did n-n-nothing…" she bowed her head, her face resting against his balled fist as she started to sob again. Her entire body trembled in his hands.

Roar's mouth gaped open and he just stared at her. The elf had crumbled to pieces under his abuse, and all that was left now was a babbling, moist shell of a woman. Mixed emotions strung through him. The heavy hand of guilt accompanied by an unwavering fear of what he had experienced when staring into her eyes. He had to get away from her.

When Roar released her, Windelin crumbled to the ground, her arms cradling her head above the dirt as she continued to weep loudly. He cast a short glance towards the shattered lute before turning his back to the woman. He stomped away, the sound of her wails following him on the wind.


	3. The Relic Hunters

Roar

Chapter 3- The Relic Hunters

Blood smeared the floor around the altar, and bloodied footprints lead from the altar to the table below and back again. Strangers drawn together by one secretive lust sat around the table, they laughed and feasted together. Warm mead and frost-chilled wine sloshed in toasting mugs and dripped down matted chin hairs onto the tainted feast. The reclaiming of Reachcliff Cave was a great triumph for the coven, and the feast was in honor of the three Champions that made it happen.

One of the three honored guests sat on the floor near the altar and stared out over the dining coven in silent awe. He was a young Bosmer no more than fourteen years old, with a strong youthful form but a childlike face. His features were soft and round, with dark amber eyes that illuminated his face in the reflection of torchlight. He looked harmless to most, but a certain few could catch the burning behind his eyes. Danger came in many forms.

He watched as the coven feasted and listened to the roars of conversation and the occasional sound of cracking bones. Marrow was the sweetest treat of the feast in the Bosmer's eyes, and finally hunger regained control and he pushed himself to his feet to attain another portion. He pulled a small dagger from his waist and approached the altar, amber eyes filled with the glow of flame and the lust of flesh. A deviant smirk warped his features and he cut into the already open and bloody cavity in the chest of the offering. Skillfully he snapped a rib, and with a quick turn of his wrist he pulled the bone free and immediately stuck the end into his mouth. Meat still stuck to the bone, and the sour flavor of human blood mixed with the ever wonderful taste of marrow was almost more than what the elf could handle. He growled faintly and started to shred the meat off of the rib with sharp teeth, pausing only when he felt the familiar weight of a hand on his shoulder.

"Slow down, you'll lose control Herin."

The woman's voice was soothing, and almost immediately the Bosmer's tensed shouldered slackened and his ferocity towards his meal weakened incredibly. As a child would, Herin turned and stared up at his companion with wide eyes accenting an expression false innocence. The rib bone was still clutched firmly between his teeth and in his fist.

The face he stared into was that of the woman who saved his life. She was a Nord woman with many battle scars and stories for each one. The kind expression she currently wore was one that was saved for himself and their other comrade; otherwise her worn features were usually twisted into a disdainful scowl. One eye was blind and held a permanent squint, the lid heavy with scar tissue, while the other still held the brilliant blue iris is had when she was in her youth. Her red hair was graying, and even in its unkempt state was still held together with loose curls, wooden beads, and slivers of bone.

"I'm in control, Frigga." Herin spoke around the bone, "I'm in control." He started to suckle on the bone, and occasionally crunched it with his teeth to loosen the marrow inside.

"Good." Frigga ruffled the elf's dark hair and turned back to the altar. She looked upon the murdered priest of Arkay—or what was left of him—with no regret for what she had been a part of. It was all worth it for the artifact.

She silently picked meat from her teeth with her nail as she observed the masterfully carved ring that adorned her finger. Namira's artifact, a glorious prize and honor for such little work. Clearing the cave with help from the other two had been easy, and luring the priest back here afterward was even easier. Sticking him with her blade and having that first taste of his flesh had sealed her fate, and it was she that Namira had chosen to speak to and gift with her ring. There was no jealousy in the group over this; all of the artifacts were shared.

Frigga turned her attention to the third member of their party; an Orc warrior who renounced her husband and Chieftain for the life of a sell sword. She called herself 'Cub'. Frigga couldn't help but notice that Cub's fingers were clean of blood. A conniving grin came to her face as she approached the much larger warrior.

"Cub, my love," she cooed, "You have not partaken in the feast. You don't want to insult our hostess, do you?" Frigga seemed to float soundlessly in front of Cub. She reached out would a bloodied hand and caringly pushed one of the Orc's thick dreadlocks away from her face. Cub had the most beautiful blue eyes she had even seen on an Orc; Frigga would swim in them if she could.

"I do not want to insult Malacath by feasting in Namira's name." Cub answered. Her voice was unemotional; it always was when she made up her mind about something. This only drove Frigga to push further.

"In that case you insult Malacath by swinging around Molag Bal's mace in combat." Frigga pushed her torso against Cub's and reached out with her ringed hand. She fondled the handle of Bal's mace suggestively, light reflected off Namira's ring—it was dominant there in the cave so close to Namira's shrine. She watched doubt form on Cub's features and pressed onward. "You don't fight in Bal's name…nor will you feast in Namira's."

Frigga slowly, intimately, pushed Cub backwards, slowly guiding her until the Orsimer's lower back pressed against the edge of the altar. "My love we must celebrate," she urged as she once again reached around Cub, this time to retrieve a chalice from atop the altar. "And here with our new friends…our new coven…we will celebrate in the way of Namira…but for our own desires." She held up the chalice between them, the dark red liquid inside sloshing over the rim and down over her fingers.

"I want Malacath's artifact…"

"Shh…I know." Frigga put the cup to Cub's lips and smeared the split blood across them. "I know my love…but patience. Malacath's relic is out of our reach for now…we must focus on what is feasible at this time." Delight swelled within her as Cub's lips parted, allowing Frigga to pour the chalice of blood into her mouth. "I was thinking…maybe…the Wabbajack could be our next target." She tossed the chalice over her shoulder; it shattered when it hit the floor.

"We'll go in search of madness?" Cub asked as Frigga drew closer. She leaned back farther on the altar and could feel her arm brushing the corpse.

"We're already mad, my love." Frigga breathed before she wrapped Cub's lips into a moist kiss. When she slowly pulled away, Frigga ran her hand along Cub's thigh and dipped her fingers beneath the tattered dress her comrade was wearing. The Orc's wetness enveloped her fingers, and the faint gasp that passed from her lips smelled of the blood she just drank. "So the Wabbajack should be easy to locate."

Herin was once again sat on the floor. He watched Frigga's assault on Cub's person as he continued to nurse the marrow from another piece of bone. As Frigga lowered to her knees and hid her face beneath Cub's skirts Herin stood back up and approached the altar to continue feeding. He didn't notice the different moans and creaks that suddenly replaced the sound of conversation in the humid cavern.


End file.
